


Under the Scope

by alltoseek



Series: Going Under [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e16 Under the Radar, Gen, Plothole Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9619904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: “Prove it,” echoed in Peter's ear. “Prove it!”“Jones!” he barked. “Take a team and search Neal's apartment.”An alternate ending to "Under the Radar".





	1. Neal

**Author's Note:**

> This version is much angstier than my other season 2 finale alternate ending [On the Radar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9546869).
> 
> Many thanks to my betas alcyone and feroxargentea :-)

Peter watched Neal walk off, past Jones and Diana and the car, his shoulders stiff, the picture of righteous indignation. _“Prove it,”_ echoed in Peter's ear. _“Prove it!”_

“Jones!” he barked. “Take a team and search Neal's apartment.” Jones nodded and headed over to round up a few of the Harvard crew.

“Diana, follow Neal,” Peter ordered.

“On it, boss.”

**~o~o~o~**

Neal couldn't believe it. After... after _everything_. That Peter could – that he could... An accusation like this – this huge. In the face of everything – Neal as honest as he's ever been, and Peter... Peter... Moz was right.

Dammit.

He trusted Peter. Heart and soul. He thought Peter knew that, so why…? He thought they'd built a great partnership. Especially these past weeks, months... since Moz was shot. Neal'd been firmly on Peter's side, doing things Peter's way. They'd just risked their lives together – and Peter was going to believe something Adler said – some obscure “This is all your fault” – what did he say? “You won't get away with this,” that was it. Who cared what Adler said? Get away with what? The art that just blew up?

They're just clutching at straws, both of them. Peter and Adler – they wanted the art to not have been destroyed. Hell, Neal wanted the art to have survived. He wished he _had_ stolen it away. Then he could lead Peter right to it – voilà! Yet another excellent con pulled off by yours truly.

Why the hell would Peter think he'd steal all that treasure? What on earth would he do with it all? It didn't belong to him, or to Adler, not to any one person. It belonged to the world.

But Peter didn't... He still didn't... He'd talked to him like he thought Neal could go straight, could choose – be a man or a con. But he didn't believe it. After everything – _everything_ – Peter still thought Neal was, was – a thief. Just a thief. A liar, a con, a thief. That's it. That's all he could ever believe.

Peter'd take Adler's word – not even Adler's _word_ , just some stray thought he'd had after the shock of the explosion – but Peter would believe _Adler_ over him. _Adler_.

The explosion, the gun, the shooting, the accusation. Neal was exhausted. His feet hurt from the walking and his legs were shaky. He found a low wall and sat down, head in his hands. He wanted to cry, but he wouldn't. Not yet, not over – over the art, yes, he could cry for that, but not –

He'd saved the man's life by giving up a treasure. Peter'd even offered the ring back, but Neal didn't want it. Didn't that tell Peter anything? What else could he do?

Nothing. It was – obvious. Obvious to everyone but himself, apparently. He'd never change. A lying thieving con, that's what he was. Peter knew it, Moz knew it, Alex knew it, Jones knew it, Sara knew it.

Diana knew it too. There she was, tailing him. Why, he didn't know. His anklet was back on. What was he going to do? Meet up with a fence? “Hey, can you scrounge up a few billions? I got an 18-wheeler full of Nazi loot to sell you.” Oh yeah, and a bridge over to Brooklyn, while we're at it.

He got up, walked a few more blocks, dodged down an alley. Circled back around, and caught up to Diana just as she was looking out the other side of the alley, trying to figure out where he went.

“Hey,” said Neal.

“Hey,” said Diana, cool as always.

“I'm tired of walking. I thought we'd catch a cab the rest of the way.”

“Sure.”

The ride to his apartment was quiet. Nothing to say. Peter'd already said it all. Didn't even matter what Diana thought, she'd do her job regardless, no sense putting her on the spot.

At June's house, Neal was surprised when Diana stepped out of the cab after him. “What, are you babysitting me now?”

“Yeah, till Peter says otherwise.”

“You know I've still got this on,” he said, lifting up his trouser leg to show the anklet.

Diana arched a brow and crossed her arms.

“Whatever, suit yourself.” He rolled his eyes. “Don't expect me to play host, though. I'm tired and going to bed.” He walked up the steps to the front door.

He wasn't expecting June to be up waiting for him. “Neal – my god, are you all right?” she exclaimed, taking in the exhaustion that must show on his face, his smoke-stained clothes and aching eyes. “What happened? Oh Lord, that explosion – it was on the news – were you...?”

“Yeah, we were there.” Neal's wave indicated Diana as well.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No, no,” he reassured her. “No one was inside at the time. I got knocked down a bit, that's all.”

“Oh, you poor thing. Is that why Agent Jones was here?”

“What? I'm sorry, I don't...” Neal looked back at Diana, but her face was impassive as ever.

“Jones and some other agents were here just now. They searched your room,” explained June.

“Oh, did they?” his eyebrows went up. “Did they find anything? Like a cargo container's worth of Nazi treasure crated up and stashed in my closet? Maybe they found it crammed under the floorboards.”

“I don't – I don't know, Neal, I don't understand. What's going on?”

He glanced over at Diana again. “I'm sorry, June. It's late and I'm exhausted. I'll explain in the morning, OK? I'm sorry, I'm just not up to it right now.”

“Oh, of course, Neal. I don't mean to keep you up. Get some rest, you don't need to explain anything to me.”

“Thanks, June. Good night.” He trudged up the stairs, Diana following silently behind.

In his apartment, Neal was glad to see that not much looked disturbed. He'd expected to find all the drawers pulled out, overturned; cupboards open, contents tossed; wall panels pried off. He'd have to remember to thank Jones for his tidyness in searching. He grabbed some pajamas from his wardrobe, then went to the bathroom to shower. He ignored Diana and she ignored him, looking at something on her phone.

He'd just started to undress when his phone rang. Peter. Neal felt his anger spike high and was sorely tempted to ignore the call. He let it ring a few times, trying to get his emotions under control.

“You find your proof already?” he said, challenging. Keeping his emotions under control was only a strong suit when he was _actually pulling a con._

“Diana's gonna bring you down here,” said Peter, evenly. “We've got something you'll want to see.”

He sighed, closing his eyes. “Fine.” He hung up.

The ride down was as quiet as the ride up. Neal thought about trying to catch a nap, but he was too wound up. This time of night, the traffic was light and it didn't take long to get there. “There” being an address on the edge of the meatpacking district. Peter was standing by a door, directing a hive of agents in and out of an unassuming building. The agents were carting off... crates. Lots of large crates.

In a flash Neal was at Peter’s side, looking through the doorway into the building, his smile wide and happy. “You found it! My god, Peter, you found it!” He grinned up at his friend, all anger gone. “It wasn't destroyed after all. I can't believe it.”

Peter looked down at him, solemn, silent. Well, it had been an exhausting few days – an emotional roller coaster. And Peter had just shot Adler – that must weigh on him. “I'll just go look inside, OK?” he said, slipping in the door between agents.

It was amazing. Everything glowed in the warm light. Most of the crates were open, the agents taking inventory. He could see the Van Dyck in all its glory, a Rembrandt – and there, a Degas. Glorious. Magnificent. All other emotions faded in the light of immense relief, of joy. All these irreplaceable masterpieces, made available again. Not destroyed, not hidden, not lost at the bottom of an ocean.

Peter had followed him inside and was watching him, face drawn, almost wary. Neal walked over to him, still smiling – he couldn't help it, he couldn't stop the happiness. “So how'd you do it? How did you find it? It's amazing, Peter, amazing!”

Peter took a small clear evidence bag out of his jacket pocket and held it up for Neal's view. Inside was a key and a card. On the card was an address – this address – and a note: “'You'll thank me.' Huh. Where did you find this?” he asked. “Was it on Adler? His men? Oh – did it survive the explosion, behind the bullet-proof glass?”

Peter didn't answer, but asked instead, “Do you recognize this?”

Neal frowned, and looked more closely at the key and the card. “No. The key – standard door lock, nothing special. Card stock – also looks typical for business cards. The typeface – it looks like it was done on a typewriter, an old-fashioned one. The type force is uneven. But new ribbon, plenty of fresh ink. Maybe somebody's idea of being cute – a '40's typewriter for a '40's treasure?”

“But have you seen this before?”

“No. Where did you find it?”

“Neal. We found it in your apartment.”

His head began to shake. “No...” he said softly.

“It was on the table, in easy view from the door. Who did you leave it there for, Neal? Or did someone leave it for you?”

He stared at Peter, mind racing. It could only be Mozzie, or Alex. But that card – that wasn't Alex's style. It must have been Moz, except – he must've forgotten, that agents could search his place any time. Mozzie kept the apartment bug-free, but... he must've known that after the treasure was discovered to have gone missing – No. Maybe Moz thought that Peter trusted Neal. _Neal_ had thought so. His place hadn't been searched for months. Only that one time. So. Moz must've expected Neal to have come home long before Peter or anyone else showed up there.

“Who are you working with, Neal?” asked Peter, startling him out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped to his face. “Tell me.”

He shook his head. “No. You think I'd rat out a partner? No.” There wasn't any way Neal was getting out of this. The card alone was probably too circumstantial to convict him of stealing the treasure, but Peter was bound to rescind the deal keeping Neal on the anklet for his current sentence.

It must be obvious to Peter who the 'partner' was, anyway. Moz, or Alex, or maybe both. But if Peter thought he’d give up either, or anyone – maybe he thought Neal would give up one to spare the other.

But then, Peter'd accused him of the theft straight off. He didn't know Neal at all. God knew what he expected.

“Tell me who you were working with,” repeated Peter.

“You must have checked for fingerprints,” returned Neal. “You tell me.”

Peter looked over to Diana. “Put Neal under arrest. Take his phone, and take him to the office. I'll put Jones in charge here, and follow you.”

In the car, he slipped the cuffs immediately. Not that he was planning to do anything – what could he do? – but there was no need for him to be uncomfortable.

Diana finally broke her silence. “It doesn't have to be this way, Caffrey. Look, all you gotta do is tell us what you know, and we can write it up that you moved the treasure to make sure that Adler didn't get away with it; that you were worried about the unstable TNT.”

Neal said nothing.

“No one wants to put you back in prison, Neal. Least of all Peter.”

Neal had nothing to say.

It was more of the same at the office. Peter pulled out his bag of interrogation tricks, and Neal ignored all of them, remaining silent. His only thought was for when he should ask for his lawyer, and whether that lawyer should be Mozzie or not. He’d prefer to keep Moz as far from this as possible, but Moz was the only one who had any answers. He stayed quiet. Eventually Mozzie would hear what had happened, and either show up as Neal's lawyer, or disappear. Once Peter got around to sticking Neal in a prison cell, he'd ask for his lawyer – the one that had defended him years before, and got him off almost everything.

He had about three years left on his sentence. He could stick that out in prison. Or escape, either way. It hardly mattered. Kate was dead, Peter was permanently against him, and Mozzie would always lead him back to the life. In prison or out, he was stuck all the same.


	2. Peter

By the time Peter got home that morning, El was already up and out of the house, for which Peter was thankful. He didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to answer questions, he didn’t want to think. He’d called her last night, after the explosion and the shooting, to tell her he’d be late, not to worry and not to wait up.

He felt more exhausted than he ever had in his life. And technically this was a win: they’d recovered the treasure --

Nope. Not thinking.

He got a bowl of cereal and ate it, gaze unfocused. Not thinking.

He showered, brushed his teeth, went to bed.

No thinking. Just sleep.

Resolutely not thinking, he did manage to fall asleep within 20 minutes or so.

He woke up mid-afternoon, feeling somewhat refreshed but still with an odd dreadful weight pressing on his mind --

Oh. Right.

El wasn’t home yet, so he didn’t have to think, and he wasn’t going to. He dressed and made himself a couple sandwiches. Food was a good replacement for thinking. El would appreciate his making dinner, as long as he was home. He wasn’t thinking about why he was home and not going into the office. He didn’t have time to make pot roast, but he could throw together a salad and grill some chicken.

By the time El got home the table was beautifully set, the salad put together, the chicken ready to be plated.

“Hi, hon,” said El brightly, coming through the door. “Wow, dinner looks great! Smells great, too.” She smiled up at Peter.

“Hey, hon,” he said, giving her a kiss. “How was your day?” he asked as they sat down at the table.

“Oh, the usual,” she said dismissively. “Much better now you’re home too.” She grasped his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Much better for having dinner ready -- mmm, fantastic.”

Peter smiled perfunctorily and began to eat slowly. He wasn’t really hungry. He downed about half his glass of wine.

“Are you OK?” El asked. “Are you ready to talk about last night?”

“I --” _I won’t ever be ready_. “I think you should eat first. Then we can talk.”

“OK, if you’re sure.” El kept hold of his hand.

Peter took another drink of wine.

El made quick work of the light meal. Standing up, she took both Peter’s hands in hers and led them over to the sofa. They settled down, Peter leaning against one arm of the couch, El snuggled into his arms. “OK, mister, spill.”

“I killed a man.” He didn’t even think. It just burst out.

He heard her gasp. She twisted a little so she could look up at him, get her arms around him. “Oh, god, Peter, I’m so sorry.” She held him tight.

“He wasn’t a good man. He was holding a gun on Neal. He said - he was going to pull the trigger. He would’ve killed him.”

“Of course you had to shoot. No one will doubt that. You’re a good agent, Peter. If you thought you had to then you had to.”

“There wasn’t a good shot. I had just got there, I didn’t have time - the angle was all wrong. I just aimed for center mass, that’s all I could do.”

“I know, honey, I know,” soothed El.

“That’s not all that happened, either. I have to tell you…” Peter’s throat seized up; he could feel the tears coming. Dammit, he couldn’t. His arms seized convulsively around El. She felt so good; it was so good, holding her. She was murmuring again, it’s all right, soothing words. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair until he could breathe again.

“I told you about the explosion,” he said.

“Yes, but no one was hurt? Is that right?”

“Yeah, that was fortunate. The only casualty last night was Adler.”

“Adler - that’s who you shot? Well, if anyone deserved to be shot, it was him.”

“Yeah. I told you, not a good man.”

“Understatement of the year.”

“Still, not how it’s supposed to go down.”

“No, I know, sweetheart, I know.”

Peter was silent a moment. “The treasure - the art, all of it - was in the warehouse. Before it exploded.”

“Oh my god,” breathed El. “So all of it - after all this, it’s all… just gone? Oh my god, Peter, I’m so sorry.”

Peter took a deep breath, “Well, no, as it turns out. The treasure had been moved. Adler didn’t know that. Someone stole it from him. Before the explosion.”

“Oh… wow.” El blinked. “Yes, an eventful night.”

“We found it.”

“Already? But that’s great, isn’t it?” Peter looked so deeply unhappy; El was confused.

“I accused Neal of stealing it.”

El blinked again. “Well, did he? Sounds like the kind of thing he might do.”

Peter huffed a laugh, an unhappy one. “That’s what I thought. But you should have seen him, he was so angry that I’d think so, so vehement in denying it. Told me to ‘prove it’.”

“So… what happened?”

“Neal was so upset that he just walked off. Jones was going to drive him home but he just walked away. So,” Peter took another deep breath, “I told Jones to search Neal’s apartment.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Jones found a card with an address and a key. Right there on Neal’s kitchen table. _Right there_.” Peter gestured angrily with his arms.

“And that’s where the treasure was, at that address?”

“Yep. And the key unlocked the door. Jesus, El, right there.”

“Well, do you think… Is it possible that someone… would anyone want to frame Neal?”

“I don’t see why. I mean, we wouldn’t have even found the treasure - at least not so quickly - without having the address delivered to us on a plate like that. A lot of people might have grudges against Neal but none that outweigh keeping billions of dollars worth of treasure for themselves.”

“But you would have been able to find it, by following Neal’s tracker, right? I mean, if he took it.”

“He was working with someone. He could have someone else do the physical moving. Neal himself would just make the contacts, for storing it, fencing it.”

El digested that for a moment. “Could Neal, then, not have known? Yet, I mean. I mean, Jones found the card and key, sitting out, where Neal - no one - would miss seeing it. So maybe… someone… took the treasure but hadn’t told Neal yet?”

Peter looked skeptical. “But who? Why? Neal’s thick as - ha! - thick as thieves with Mozzie. He’s just as close to Alex. It has to be one - or both - of them involved, and they always brainstorm these things together. No,” continued Peter, “it doesn’t make sense. Neal and his friends love to communicate in these little codes and secret hiding spots, slipping things back and forth. They’d never leave something that huge, that dangerous, out in the open.”

“But,” El was still confused, “they did.”

Peter shook his head and one hand, dismissing her concern. “That was just the details. They’d already planned what to do, and how, mostly. The address and key were just the last details. They’re so used to using Neal’s loft as a base of operations, they forgot it’s not exactly secure.”

They were both silent a moment.

“The worst part is,” said Peter, squeezing El tight again, his head on hers, “was all the _acting_ Neal did. How indignant he was, that I could consider him a thief - as if he hasn’t continued stealing again and again. Then how _very_ pleased he was that I’d miraculously found the treasure - he was all smiles and buttering me up, even as I pulled out the card and key. It was only when I told him _where_ I found the card that he clammed up and stopped with the games.

“All I could think is that if I hadn’t known, hadn’t been so certain that he was behind the theft, that I would have fallen for his acting, again, just like I must have a hundred times before. He’s been running circles around me all this time, and I never knew. Never even knew. God! No wonder they thought they could leave the address out in the open - stupid Burke! He’ll never figure it out; Neal can talk circles around him; Neal’s got him wrapped around his finger.” Peter’s voice spat bitterness.

“Oh, honey,” said El, “I don’t think that’s true. He’s backed up his words with actions so many times.”

“It suits him to have me for his handler. He’s already got my number. Why change to someone who might see through him?”

“Peter --”

“Shh, no, never mind, honey, I’m sorry. It’s been -- let’s not talk about it any more.”

“OK. OK. I love you.”

“Love you too, hon.”

They sat quietly for long minutes, just breathing. Peter felt his muscles start to relax, the tight clench in his stomach finally loosen. He’d killed Adler; it was horrible; there wasn’t anything different he could have done. Neal was a thief and a liar; he always had been; Peter couldn’t save Neal from his own self. Neal’d made his bed, his choices; he’s stuck with them.

Meanwhile, Peter had El, right here, right now, and they’re stuck with each other. He smiled softly, against El’s soft hair: his first genuine smile since yesterday morning.


End file.
